


hollowed out

by Recluse



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Fire Emblem: Three Houses Blue Lions Route, Gen, Gender-Neutral My Unit | Byleth, Introspection, Minor Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/My Unit | Byleth, Other, Set Right After Reunion Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-04
Updated: 2019-09-04
Packaged: 2020-10-06 18:37:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20511644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Recluse/pseuds/Recluse
Summary: In the time it takes to reach the bandit's stronghold, Byleth remembers the past.





	hollowed out

It takes them back in time.

Not literally, but in memories. Traveling on foot with Dimitri, closer and closer to the bandit's stronghold — it reminds Byleth of the days spent as a mercenary. Jeralt's words come back with each pause for rest, for food — when to hunt, how to sleep while giving chase, fires without much smoke, ways to hide them from the enemy. How to find rivers for water. How to sleep on the dirt without an aching back, or in the trees to stay out of reach. Memories go by in beats, his rough voice but gentle gestures — something odd aches in Byleth's chest, a kind of bitter pain akin to when Jeralt had died, but not as heavy. Not as despairingly deep.

Five years it had been, somehow. Oddly, it feels to Byleth as if it’s only been a few months at most; they don’t find themselves aged physically, not in the slightest. Indeed, it seems like they had simply been sleeping — the faint memory of Sothis' voice echoes through their head, chiding them yet again. _ Wake up, _ she had said, angry at their sluggishness. Funny to hear from her, who had slept so often in the time they'd had together... 

Dimitri stills, so suddenly that Byleth nearly runs into his back. He doesn’t seem to notice.

“I know, I know. Soon...” He mumbles, and from behind him all Byleth can see is the frantic shake of his head before he starts walking again, moving faster than before. Almost panicked, as if being chased. Muttering under his breath words they can’t hear, hand gripping his lance like it’s all he has left.

* * *

_ Prey _ _ — you know kid, rabbits, pheasants, the stuff we catch in traps — it’s cautious. Every moment it’s risking its life, and it knows that. _

_ If you’re going to hunt, you have to be quiet. Like you’re not there. Because if it sees you, it’s going to bolt, and then you’ve got no dinner for the night. _

_ ...Well, it’s not like you have to worry about that. You’ve always been pretty quiet. Just keep it in mind, all right? _

* * *

Dimitri is nervous.

In the rare moments he sleeps when Byleth is awake, he startles at the slightest noise, the crinkle of a flame, the snap of a twig. He twitches, ever wary, and his single eye — _ when, _ and _ how_, Byleth wonders — never stays too still. He eats with speed and without pleasure, as if the very act is a risk he has to calculate, and his hands shake if he isn’t holding something to defend himself with. He huddles under his cloak and sinks into the shadows when he can, avoiding the spots where the trees aren’t as thickly gathered, the patches of grass and sunlight. 

He doesn’t look at them. Not often, anyways.

(There are times when Byleth can see him stare from the corner of his good eye. His gaze lingers, then, before ignoring them yet again, the set of his shoulders a little more tense. His words are short, voice rough and worn, muttering, always muttering. Never much, never kind in the way he once spoke; now he speaks without the hesitation that used to settle in the spaces he left. There is little trace of the boy they once knew, fumbling for the right words, for the kindest way to express himself.

And yet.

There is no mistaking the blue of his single eye, or the sorrow that flickers by in moments, a startling clarity that glazes over with madness yet again in the next second. The shadow that once followed him has swallowed him, is the front of who he is instead of hovering behind. Dark and cold and violent, smothering what warmth is left.)

There are so many things to ask, but no way to ask them. Dimitri will only speak of rats, of the filth they spread, the havoc they’ve wrecked on the villages nearby. Of how they’ve desecrated the monastery even further since the war, vermin eating the scraps of another’s remains. 

“They must be punished.” He says, gripping his lance so tight that the metal is close to snapping, “Killed like the pests they are. Filthy rats in their filthy lair...”

_ ...This never gets easier for me. _

* * *

_ Whoa, kid! What the— Where did you get that wound? Why didn’t you say anything? Come on, we’re running low on medical supplies, but we’ve got some bandages left. You should’ve said something earlier, ugh, the look of this thing... _

_ What? My...Ha. What a way to show your concern. _

_ Listen, I’m not about to fall over and die thanks to something like this. I barely feel it, in fact! So don’t hide if you’re feeling bad for my sake. Just tell me. It’s better to fix stuff like this as soon as possible. Otherwise it can get worse. Infections, diseases...It’s not usually the first cut that’s the problem. It’s what happens after if you don’t take care of it. Got it? _

* * *

The pain is evident.

Byleth knows little of pain in the way that others do, but what they do know is fresh, the first time they had ever felt anguish, rage — those memories are new still, less than a year old in their eyes. The way anger burns, how grief hollows your body in a way that cannot be explained. The frustration of knowing there is no way to fix something no matter what you try. The ache of tears, of sorrow that never seems to end. _ “It was fate.” _

Fate! How mocking it had sounded, then. To know the threads of time and be unable to change a single thing — to be forced to know the loss twice, to want to try again and again while knowing there would be no other outcome, to be overwhelmed by grief not once but two times over—

—the agony that had brought. So new. Unfamiliar in the worst of ways.

In his room, after his death — reading his journal in parts, only half-seeing the words — Dimitri’s gentle gait. Loud enough to be heard from a distance, but not heavy. Just there.

It was fine to grieve, he had said. There was strength in it, in taking the time. In facing such a feeling. In knowing it. In holding that feeling for a time before seeking a purpose born beyond it, that this ugliness was meaningful, could be something more than just bleak weight, tar in the soul.

Had he known then, how those words had moved them? How they had propelled their first steps away from their room? How in the moment before they had opened the door after weeping with Sothis, they had remembered his words, his promise to stand by their side through anything, and that moment of faith — of trust, of compassion — in that moment, when the world had seemed unnaturally cold, that had been light. That had been what they needed to see, the value of the warmth they had once known made obvious against the dark.

He had sworn to them his support. Had followed them into the forest. Had pushed for it on their behalf. Had acted on it through every turn. Had reflected their emotions better than they could alone, more practiced at untangling the pain, at finding the words. Had taught them something intangible.

It was then that Byleth had felt that they had seen him clearly for the first time, like cleaning fog from a window. So different from what they had been. An overflowing well of something they had just begun to hold. So painfully alive.

Next to them, Dimitri snarls, “Stop it.” 

Byleth freezes. Dimitri glowers, shoulders tight and tense as he says, “Don’t stare. If I disgust you, leave. It matters not.”

Byleth shakes their head. Dimitri scoffs, scowls and turns away.

They go further into the forest.

* * *

_ ...You all right? How do you feel? _

_ Fine..? That's...Well, I guess that's good. Your first run in with bandits. Good job. You had some sloppy form near the end, but for your first time you fought well. Not many do. Not many at all. _

_ ...Get some rest for tomorrow, kid. _

* * *

Dimitri had once asked them how they had reconciled with killing. The conversation had been ages ago, though still clear in their mind, a memory touched by uncertainty, a faint sensation of pain in the heart. An unusual affliction at Dimitri's wavering voice. Unsteady at the edges.

Truth be told, it hadn't been something they had considered much before. It was the way of a sellsword, as some of the mercenary troupe said, to kill when asked, when paid to do so. The only difference between a lowbrow mercenary and a high class assassin was how rich the target was and how many there were — it had been a joke, to some of the more crass of the crowd, though Jeralt had never particularly liked it, Byleth remembers.

Thinking back to a time before the monastery, there had been moments where something like remorse had touched them — a trembling child holding a knife, their parent once a thief, now lying dead, loyal dogs cut down in the same way their masters were — but until Dimitri, until they had come to the monastery and met their students, had spent time with them, had forged bonds unlike the ones they knew — until then the feelings had been muted. Treated with detachment. Simply the way of the world, like prey, predator. 

They wonder now — had it worried Jeralt? Their detachment? It must have. In his journal there are notes, Byleth's first word, first real injury, first kill. How odd it was that they never cried or laughed. Dozens of earlier entries from a time when Byleth had been a child, never weeping over scraped knees, never begging for toys or sweets, never acting beyond a certain threshold. How uncomfortably easy it was to take care of them, how eerie their stare had seemed at first before he had gotten accustomed to it, had learned to read what was there and act. 

Towards the end though — just months before his death — there was an entry on their first smile, claiming the students were the cause. It was longer than the other entries, describing their smile — small, but warm and radiant and true — and wondering if it would have been better to settle down and raise them somewhere stable, somewhere they could have forged lasting bonds with others instead of ones managed by coin and iron. That entry had ended there, an ink stain on the page, and it hurts to imagine what he may have felt then, sitting on that thought. Byleth only knows that the time they spent as a mercenary with their father has become cherished — a blessing and a curse, memories they wouldn’t trade, that they hold tight in their hands the best they can. The sound of his voice. His guidance in every swing of their sword. Gentle ribbings.

Dimitri holds his head in his hands and murmurs of ghosts. Of his family, his friends. Of those who call to him and demand tribute. Endless whispers pulling at his self, never leaving him alone. Memories of loved ones he can’t escape. A blessing and a curse.

* * *

_ Killing is part of the job, but even so...There are times I’m chilled to the bone by the depravity of my own actions. _

_ ...It's normal to feel that way. _

_ Is it? Perhaps you're right. I pray that you are. _

_ ...Professor? May I speak freely? _

_ When we first met, I thought of you as someone who felt no strong feelings about killing your enemies. I could never trust someone who kills without batting an eye. My heart won't allow it. But after speaking with you and getting to know you better, I can see you're not like that. Now I know, with all my heart, that I can trust you. Thank you for that. _

* * *

Ashen Demon, they had apparently been called. An unchanging face who cut down all who crossed their path. Who had never thought for even more than a moment of the humanity of those they cut down, who had ignored lockets and letters, locks of hair. Jewelry had been taken from the dead and pawned. Bodies had been left in fields for the crows. 

There had been once — once that Byleth remembered, because Jeralt had seemed haunted by it — as they were searching the dead, looking for other stolen goods, they had found a letter. A wife and child thankful the father had found work elsewhere, despite the distance between them, and wishing to see him soon. The scribble of a child’s drawing, worn and folded, kept in the man’s breast pocket. Stained with his own blood at the edges where they had cut into him without mercy. 

Jeralt had stared at it. Had later written a reply as if the man had died of natural causes. Of an accident. He had drank more that evening, and hugged Byleth tight, an unusual occurrence that left a mark in their memory even now. It hadn’t been for more than that night — the next morning he had been entirely as usual — but they’ve never forgotten it. Only put it aside as something they didn’t understand at the time.

Dimitri had seen right through them from the start, Byleth realizes, skin prickling with discomfort. They hadn’t any strong feelings about killing their enemies at first — it hadn’t been until witnessing Ashe break down over Lonato, over the townspeople he once knew, and watching Dimitri console him, only to see him crack in the next — it hadn’t been until right that moment that Byleth had felt something to a full extent, a punch in the gut in the way Dimitri’s voice had broke, holding it together and falling apart. In the genuine anguish that had been there, the force of it so heavy that it had resonated through the haze they had once lived in. A window to more.

He felt so deeply. Rich with emotion. Byleth had been drawn to it. Had drank from it. Had changed simply by being around it. Had tasted the sweetness of looking for the good in others, in hope and naivety, in compassion and kindness, as well as the bitterness of loss and hurt, self hatred, regret. Full of it. 

They pause. The bandits stronghold is just a few paces away.

Dimitri is grim, maniac. The grin on his face is false and twisted. It hurts to look at.

* * *

_ No matter what happens or what anyone may say, know that I plan to stand by you, Professor. Through anything. Until the bitter end. _

**Author's Note:**

> Quick edit: I completely forgot that the bandit thing happens in the timespan of the same day you find Dimitri. I wrote this fic under the idea that it would take a couple of days to get there from the monastery. It's a minor detail but it might make a few things clearer.
> 
> I finished Blue Lions/Azure Moon as my first route weeks ago and I'm still thinking about how much I'd like to do it again. 
> 
> The whole route really resonated with me -- I had always been a Blue Lions supporter from the start, but Dimitri took my whole everything with his story, plus the whole BL cast is great. I didn't expect to fall into Byleth/Dimitri either, but the game really gave me a lot with the whole "robotic person learns to feel and hoo boy" and "overly empathetic traumatized individual goes apeshit" reaching out to each other at every turn. I really dig it.
> 
> I went with they/them for this, since it felt appropriate, but as I played F!Byleth I'll likely end up writing more from that end if/when I get around to it. Thanks for taking a look.


End file.
